Quincy High School - Goldenrod Yearbook (Quincy, MA)

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26 THE GOLDEN-ROD A Little One-Act Play Entitled “LEARNING A SPEECH” Scene First and Only: A four-sided room in a shingled house. John, a boy of about seventeen summers, is trying to learn a speech for a debate the next even- ing. John stands before a large mirror and begins to speak: John: Mr. Chairman, ladies and gen- tlemen. My colleague, the first speaker for— Voice (from below): John, dear, please get me some coal. John: Yes, Mother. (Under breath) ! : x : ! $ (John gets the coal, then resumes for- mer position before the mirror.) John: Ladies and gentlemen. Mr. Chairman—no, that’s wrong—Mr. Chair- man, ladies and gentlemen. My—{John is interrupted by commotion around pedal extremities. The dog and cat are having a little boxing match.) John (very gently): Now, Peter and Bozo, you run along and play outside. (After brief struggle, manages to put both canine and feline out of the room.) John: Now, let’s see, now, where was Ir Oh, yes: Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen. My colleague—(loud snickers from rear. John turns and perceives little brother grinning at him.) John: Hey, get out of here, you little runt. (Little brother does a hasty exit, and runs to Mother.) Little Brother: Hey, Ma, Johnny’s gone nutty. He’s up in your room yellin’ at himself in the mirror about the Bolshe- vicks. John (again): Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen. My colleague, the first speaker for the—(Bang!-bang!—crash! —noises from little brothers room. In the meanwhile, Mother starts the vacuum cleaner, small sister plays the piano, older brother whistles, a fid father saws wood.) John: Oh, d—n! !!;xzfi£! (John grabs papers containing speech and retreats to garage, where he continues to practice in the same manner.) Clarence Nickerson. Wliv the Man-in-the-Moon Winked It happened in a library, the shelves of which were filled with delightful looking books. It would not have happened if the moon hadn’t been out. It was a round moon, and the features of Mr. Man-in- thc-Mcon were very distinct in it. Wher- ever the light of that silver disc fell, magic was there. The rays of the moon flooded the library with a pale radiance, magic was produced, and it happened, which brings us back to the beginning. Just as the grandfather’s clock in the hall was striking midnight, a great rustling filled the room. Out from be- tween the covers of the books stole myri- ads of tiny people. They swarmed over every available piece of furniture, their eyes big with excitement. An old. vener- able man with a scythe jumped onto the table in the middle of the room and called for silence. “Friends,” began Father Time, for it was he, “we have met here tonight to dis- cuss the defects of modern authors in general. Now, their greatest crime lies in making their characters do as their auth- ors wish, rather than allowing them to act as they themselves wish. A few cases will illustrate my point. For instance, take the case of Captain Kidd. The author who is writing about that illustrious pirate actually caused his ship to be searched within the twelve-mile limit for contra- band liquors!” “Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight! Yo- ho-ho and a bottle of rum!” croaked Cap- tain Kidd’s parrot. “Order!” shouted Father Time. “Fur- thermore,” he continued in a milder voice, “they made Bluebeard—” “Bluebeard can speak for himself, sir,” growled that individual. “I’ve been mar-

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 25 Ashes “Whisp-ring voices of yester-years, Ghosts of the smiles we used to know; Tinkling laughter subdued by tears— Whisp’ring voices of yester-years: lender phrases, sweet to our ears, Speaking our name in accents low, WhispTing voices of yester-years, Ghosts of the smiles we used to know.” Twilight had fallen upon the earth, twilight, with its shadows, its peaceful- ness, and its great gift of dreams. The blizzard which had raged all day was now calming down as if to blend with the ab- solute stillness of the hour. Roger, seated at his window, watched the snow as it softly fell, covering wood, mansion, cottage and street with a blanket sure and white. Occasionally he raised his wrinkled and shaky hand to wave at a merry crowd of young people out to cele- brate New Year’s. The shadows had deepened and the room grown cold when Roger called for his servant. Quickly James entered, and with a “Yes, sir,” was at his master’s bidding. His master, still gazing across the vast stretch of whiteness that lay before him, said with a tragic and almost pathetic voice, “Did you hear those sleigh bells a few minutes ago? That was a sleigh party off to celebrate New Year’s. Youth, love, and happiness. I had them once, but I played them against pride and was over- powered. What have I now? Nothing but memories, cold, dead ashes of an old love.” A sigh escaped from his lips as he rose from the chair by the window and slowly made his way to the comfortable arm- chair in front of the fireplace. “Better put another log on the fire, James; the room is getting cold.” The log soon crackled merrily on the open hearth, and James, dismissed for the evening, left his master alone. Seated before the glowing fire, his eyes constantly upon a painting of a lovely lady in brocades and lace, the old man gave way to reveries. “Ah, my dear Roger, it is very rude and by no means proper for gentlemen to sleep while young ladies call. Won’t you please wake up?” Shyly she asked it as she stood before him, lovely and fair in her crinolines and powdered wig. Half-asleep, half-awake, the old man gazed at her. Who was it that confronted him? A look of surprise and joy spread over his face as he cried, “Why you— you are Elizabeth, my lovely painting come to life.” “Yes, I’m your Elizabeth,” she replied, “the maiden who broke your heart.” Sitting at his feet, her head resting upon his old and shaky knees, they lived over again the bittersweet romance of their life. “Fifty odd years ago, can you think back that far?” she began. “That was ’way back in the days when you were a young gallant, and I was the Belle of the Debutantes. For over a year you had been courting me, and folks began to take it for granted that we were lovers. On New Year’s Eve, the night of the annual winter ball, you asked me to go with you. For no reason at all (it was only a whim of youth) I refused your invitation, and went with a young man who had long tried to court me. You, angered beyond reproach, appeared at the ball in the com- pany of a beautiful and notorious French actress. “Our romance then dashed upon the rocks. With Stubborncss piloting your ship and Pride piloting mine, we were un- able to get beyond the rocks and into smooth waters again. We broke apart, leaving after us many a heartache. “I’m sorry now, Roger, sorry when it is too late. That’s the way with life, isn’t it? Always too late—too late!” Roger awoke from his dream with a start. The embers had died down very low. Nothing but ashes remained on the hearth, and in the heart of an old man heavy and cold lay the ashes of a dead love. Leonora Aida Colombo, Feb., ’24.

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THE GOLDEN-ROD 2? ried to one hundred and twelve women and got away with it, and now my author marries me off to a little chit of a movie actress, and instead of making her be overwhelmed with the honor I have con- ferred upon her, he actually has the temerity of making her have me arrested for polygamy! Me arrested—me, Blue- beard! I'11 murder him for that. Til—” “Don’t get excited, Bluebeard,” piped up Little Boy Blue. “I, too, have sutfered a lot. My author puts the haystack under which I am to fall asleep near a house. The people there own a radio with a loud speaker. As they always keep the win- dows open, I can listen in. Why, the other day I forgot to go to sleep, I was so interested in listening to the weather fore- casts. My cows wander into the corn, but instead of making me blow my horn as any sensible person would do, that author of mine makes all the drivers of the flivvers which pass toot theirs, and back come my cows. Imagine making cows mistake the noise of those things for my melodious horn! Anyone but a mod- ern author has a better idea of a cow’s musical ear than that. It’s onlv fair that—” “Who’s getting excited now:” jeered the Little Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe. “Not that I don’t sympathize with you. Why, I can’t even put my many children to bed without giving them their supper any longer. The person that writes about me made a rich, benevolent old man take pity on me and—” “What!” shouted Scrooge, “is that what happens to my money? I suppose it’s better than investing it in German marks. Wait until I put my hands on that author!” “Don’t get excited,” admonished Fa- ther Time. “Don’t get excited!” repeated Cinder- ella bitterly. “What would you do if an author made you do house-cleaning with those modern contraptions, such as vacuum cleaners and Thor washing ma- chines. And there’s no such thing as a fairy godmother in the opinion of my dear author. ‘All blathcrdash,’ he says.” Here Cinderella began to cry softly, and the Mock Turtle, her nearest neighbor, began to cry with sympathy. ‘ Don’t cry, Cinderella, ’ bc0gcd the Poor Little Match Girl. “It might be much worse. There’s a silver lining to every cloud.” “It couldn't be any worse,” moaned the Mock Turtle dolefully. “There’s no sil- ver lining to this cloud, take my word for it. Why, these poor pretentious mortals haven’t the least idea of a Lobster Quad- rille. It’s a much better dance than the Ritz, of which they write so much.” “I perceive that you arc a pessimist,” the Poor Little Match Girl said pityingly. “No, I’m not,” sobbed the Mock Tur- tle. “I’m only a turtle, and a fine one at that, even i I do say so myself.” “Well,” said Father Time, turning to the rest of the characters from the books, “now that you have heard these cases, what shall we do to our authors?” “Fry them in cod-liver oil,” bellowed Bluebeard. “Nothing of the kind,” contradicted Captain Kidd, glaring. “I’ll tell you what,” said Simple Simon suddenly, “wreck them on a desert island and make them listen to a Jazz Band for the REST OF THEIR LIVES!” A deep silence greeted Simple Simon’s suggestion, and then all the would-be torturers of the poor authors popped back, broken-hearted, into the places from which they came. And outside the Man-in-the-Moon winked, at nothing in particular. Anna Palazzi, June, ’24. WARNING! Don’t Miss the June Number of the GOLDEN-ROD Bigger and Better than Ever. Order Your Copy Early.